“Assuming he made it, there’s no way to tell. A body can get pushed a long-ass way.”
I feel a tightness in my chest. “He fuckin’ made it, okay? He had to.”
Dominic holds up his hands. “Hey, I hope he did. I’m just saying. You gotta know the odds.”
“Never tell me the odds!” Dane says, glancing as if to gauge our reactions.
I stare at him blankly, and Dominic huffs and shakes his head, giving his brother a playful shove. “He’s a Star Wars geek. Don’t mind him.”
I shrug. “Never seen it. Heard of it, though. Is that the one with the bald guy? Picard?”
Dane groans and slaps his forehead with his palm. “Oh my god. No. Picard is Star Trek. Totally different.”
“Oh. So Star Wars is the one with the big hairy monkey dude that makes the weird noises?”
“Chewy. Chewbacca. And he’s a wookie.”
I snort. “Okay, ese.”
Dane blushes scarlet. “I didn’t know you spoke English, okay?”
“Pro tip, buddy? Never call a Spanish speaker ese, okay? Just makes you sound stupid. Ninety-nine percent of us don’t even use that word, never have, and never will. I think only gangbangers in LA actually use it in what you might call a non-ironic sense.”
“Oh.”
I laugh. “You even know what non-ironic means?”
Dane shrugs. “Not exactly.”
Dominic chortles and smacks his brother on the back. “What’d I tell you, Dane? This cat speaks better English than either of us.”
“Yeah, well, I learned from you, so what’s that tell you?”
“It tells me I got saddled with the job of raising a ten-year-old brat by myself and at least you can read and write and count to twenty without taking off your shoes.”
“I wasn’t a brat.”
“No, you were a holy terror. You heard the phrase sleep with the fishes on TV and thought it sounded like fun. I had to jump in and rescue you from shark-infested waters of the South Atlantic in the middle of the night.”
“I fell in, you dumbfuck.”
“You were mumbling about wanting to sleep with the fishes.”
I’m watching their fast-paced, nonstop exchange like a tennis match, finding myself entertained, despite everything, and slowly sip water.
“I was sleepwalking! I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“Yeah, and I had to lock your door from the outside every night for six months so you didn’t sleepwalk off the fuckin’ boat again.”
“And how is that my fault?”
“Too much TV?”
“Just because you’re a goddamn Luddite who wouldn’t use GPS or radar if you didn’t have to doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate quality cinema.”
“You watch Star Wars a dozen times a week.”
“Because it’s one of a dozen DVDs on this godforsaken bucket of bolts.”
“Well I’m sorry I can’t afford to supply you with a wider variety of quality cinema, Dane. I am trying to keep you fed and clothed and halfway educated, none of which is exactly easy when my job keeps me out in the middle of the ocean.”
“That wouldn’t be a problem if you’d just take us back to New England. You could lobster and I could live with Bobby and Bo.”
“I hate lobstering, and Bobby and Bo are lazy potheads. You’d never leave the couch except to go on munchie runs.”
“They both work full-time jobs!”
“At Pizza Hut and McDonald's.”
“Work is work.”
“Wrong. A job is a job, but you’re smart and you’re a talented mechanic. You could go to college, or trade school. You can have a meaningful career. Those jackasses will work dead-end hourly wage jobs for the rest of their lives, and then they’ll be fat and unemployed alcoholics just like their piece of shit old man is now. No, Dane. Even if we did go back to Gloucester, you would NOT be living with goddamn Bobby and Bo.”
“At least I’d have a home that didn’t fuckin’ float! There’s something to be said for dry fuckin’ land, Dom.”
“Yeah, there’s something to be said for dry land: it sucks. You know why? Because PEOPLE live on dry land, and people fuckin’ suck.”
Dane snorts. “Like I said, you’re a Luddite and an antisocial recluse.”
“I’m not a Luddite.”
“You have GPS navigation, but you still chart courses by hand.”
“Yeah, and if the GPS goes down, I won’t be lost, because I have charts and I know how to use them.”
“You don’t have a cell phone, a laptop, an iPad, or even a CD player. Who the hell doesn’t have a CD player? I mean most people, nowadays, actually, since they have a cell phone and listen to internet radio and buy music on iTunes like civilized human beings.”
“I like things simple.”
“Yeah, simple like you.”
I can’t help a laugh. “You guys fight like this all the time?”
Dominic kicks open the door to the cabin, picks Dane up bodily, and tosses him out of the cabin, then closes the door behind him. “Yes, we do. He’s difficult and stubborn and hates everything.”
“So…a teenage male?”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“Thanks again for…” I shrug. “Everything, I guess.”
“It’s what anyone would do.” He eyes me. “So. Where are you headed?”
I touch the cold metal of Christian’s box. “Ft. Lauderdale, I guess.”
“That’s home?”
I shake my head. “Nah. That’s where my friend’s wife lives. I was supposed to give her this—” I tap the box, “if Chris didn’t…if he doesn’t…you know.”
“Should I contact the Coast Guard? Get search-and-rescue going?”
“He went overboard in the first few hours of the storm, and it’s been days.” I blow out a conflicted breath. “I mean, for the sake of my conscience, I have to at least have them look, right? But…like you said, we both know the odds of him having survived.”
“You gotta file a report at least. You know? Have them search a grid around the coordinates where he went missing.”
“I only know the general area. It hit so fast, I didn’t really have time to check our coordinates.”
“Better than nothing. People beat the odds all the time, man.”
“True, true.”
Dominic helps me to my feet, gives me his shoulder to grab onto as I hobble out of the cabin and up to the cockpit; by the time I struggle up the ladder, I’m gasping and sweating, shaking and weak. My leg is more messed-up than I thought, and I think I’m still incredibly dehydrated. Not in good shape at all, that’s what I am. I get on the radio and give my report to the Coast Guard, with as good a last-known location as I can manage and a description of Christian.
I’m on a deep-sea fishing trawler, on the smaller end of medium size. I can see crew scrambling around the deck, repairing, tending to nets, coiling lines, and a dozen other busy-work activities. It’s a sunny day, calm waters. I can feel the rumble of the engine, which is strange to me after spending so much of my life on sailboats.
I’m content to sit in an old, cracked leather chair in the corner of the cabin, watching Dominic converse in low tones with the older guy at the wheel. The door leading from the cockpit to the deck is open, letting in the smell of the brine-laced breeze and the sounds of the ocean, the low murmur of the voices of the crew, the trilling call of an albatross.
I still have the box.
I should stay out here, make the Coast Guard crisscross the whole damn Atlantic looking for Chris.
But I sit here in the cabin, tapping on the lid of the box, and I hear his voice in my head. Give her the box, Jonny.
It’s damn near impossible to find someone lost at sea within the first twelve hours, but after three days? He’s either dead, or he got rescued by someone. Those are the only two possibilities. I mean, a distant, distant possibility is that he washed ashore somewhere on the African coast, or that he’s still floating out there so
mewhere and the SAR crew will find him.
But after three days without food or water? Not good. Not good.
They’ll look, and they won’t find him. I’ll bring the box to Ava in Ft. Lauderdale and we’ll have a memorial service, and I’ll go back out to sea. What else is there to do?
I hate it, though.
I should look for him.
But where do I even start? And how? I’m barely alive myself, The Hemingway is probably at the bottom of the Atlantic by now, or is being hauled for scrap by scavengers, and the tiny bit I did own is gone with it. I don’t think my wallet even made it with me. I don’t know what I’m going to do about myself, as a matter of fact. I wasn’t exactly flush with cash to begin with. I have some bank saved up in a Bahamian account, but it ain’t much, and I gotta go there in person to get it…only I need ID for that, which means I’d have to go back to Columbia to get a new one, or at least a Columbian embassy somewhere. Passport, wallet, my clothes, everything I owned was on that damn boat, man.
Jesus Cristo. What a mess.
“You look like you’re deep in thought,” Dominic says to me.
I sigh. “I’m just starting to realize that my friend’s boat sank, and that all my shit is gone.”
“Sorry I couldn’t tow the cat or something, Jonny. We’re barely limping along as it is. The storm fucked up the engine and we don’t have the parts to fix it.”
“Nah, not blaming you. But my passport, my wallet, my clothes, everything I own was on that, man. I didn’t have much, but what I did have was there. Now it’s gone.”
“Sucks, man. I’ve been there.”
“Yeah?”
He nods. “After getting out of the Navy, I realized I’d spent eight years on a boat and never actually saw anything but a few harbors. So I joined a deep-sea dragging crew. Similar circumstances. Out-of-season storm, boat capsized, most of the crew was lost. I survived, along with a couple others. Lost everything. Another reason I don’t own much. Shit is expensive to replace, so if you don’t have shit to replace, won’t be a problem.”
I nod. “Yeah. Always been my philosophy, too. But losing my passport is a pain in the ass, because I don’t go back to the country of my birth if I can help it.”
“I might be able to swing as far north as Ft. Lauderdale.”
“Get me close, and I can make it the rest of the way on my own. I can’t ask you to go that far out of your way.”
A crewmember appears in the cabin, a kid even younger than Dane, blond-haired and blue-eyed and eager looking. He hands Dominic two mugs of coffee, and Dominic extends one to me.
“I gotta get Dane to Charleston anyway. He’s eighteen in a month, and he doesn’t know this yet, but I’ve got an old Navy buddy who’s gonna take him on as an apprentice. My buddy is a shipwright, builds fancy yachts and shit.”
“That’s what Dane wants to do?”
Dominic nods. “He’s talked about college, but I think he’s mostly ruled it out. He’s a hands-on guy, not a school guy. Bully, my mechanic, says Dane has a hell of a knack for anything mechanical, and I think with the right opportunity, he could really get somewhere in the world. He ain’t gonna get that stuck with me, dragging the Atlantic. This is what I wanna do, not him. So I called up my buddy last time I was ashore and set things up. I need to have him in Charleston sometime soon.”
A stocky, swarthy man in greasy coveralls appears in the doorway. He’s as wide as he is tall in a muscular way, and his hands are black with grease, as is his face, except two clean patches where a pair of goggles had been. “Cap. I think I got ’er patched. Might be able to get a few more knots out of ’er now.”
“Ah, Bully. I was just talking about you.” Dominic gently nudges the throttle forward, and the engine grumbles and rattles but we surge forward noticeably faster. “Sounds rough but serviceable. Good work.”
“My ears was burnin’, but I thought it was just sparks.” Bully eyes me. “This the feller we fished off that cat?”
“I was just saying that you think Dane has a natural gift for mechanical work. And yeah, this is Jonny.”
“Name’s Bully. Glad you made it.” Bully nods. “Dane? Boy can weld and solder, and any little thing I put in front of him, he can figure out. He fixed a hydraulic jack on his own without so much as a howdyadoo from me.”
“Think we can make it to Ft. Lauderdale on your patch?” Dominic asks.
Bully stares out the windscreen, head cocked to listen to the engine. “Got a bit of a hitch in her step still. I wouldn’t care to give you any guarantees, but I think we could make it, prob’ly. Of course, if she goes out again and I don’t have the spare parts I need, we could be in a world of hurt.”
“Will she hold, Bully?”
“She’ll hold.”
“Get me your list. We need a new antenna anyway, so I’ll pick up the parts you need while we’re in port to drop Jonny off.”
“If I can shut her down completely for a few hours, I can check her over more thoroughly. Poor old girl’s been through hell last few days.”
“Sounds good. Thanks for the update, Bully.” When he’s gone, Dominic glances my way. “Ever work a trawler before, Jonny?”
I tilt my head side to side. “Not specifically. But there ain’t much I can’t do. Been at sea my whole life.” I tap the bandage around my leg. “Might be a bit limited for a minute, but I’ll pull my weight.”
Dominic nods, eyeing me thoughtfully. “Something tells me you will.”
[Ft. Lauderdale, FL; May 20, 2016]
* * *
When I get to Ft. Lauderdale, it becomes quickly apparent that the hurricane blew past us and hit the Atlantic seaboard, starting here, probably, and smashing her way north. The city is a mess. Flooded, houses missing roofs and walls, or knocked down entirely, high-rises battered, signs missing, cars abandoned everywhere.
It’s chaos, still. No cabs, no public transit. Work crews are everywhere, working furiously to clear the mess.
Dominic is out in the bay, making himself useful doing transport work for the dock authority; he’s agreed to wait for me to finish my business with Ava, and then I’ll join his crew for the trip north to Charleston. It’s a good crew, and I don’t mind the work. Not as peaceful or challenging as sailing, but it’s a change of pace and I like it.
In the meantime, with the city in tatters, finding Ava could prove difficult.
I have the address, and I’d planned on simply catching a cab from the docks, but now it seems I’ll have to go about this the hard way. A huge portion of the roads are completely flooded, so nobody will be driving anyone anywhere anytime soon. I have no cell phone, which means no easy access to GPS or anything helpful; not sure cell service is working at the moment anyway. I walk a few blocks inland from the docks, which is tough with my leg still a bit sore; I’m doing my best to skirt flooded spots, but a lot of my journey is made trudging through icy calf- or knee-deep water. I’m standing at an intersection, trying to figure out the best course of action when I hear a motor of some kind; I turn to locate the noise and see a flat-bottomed, fan-powered, airboat approaching from the south, one man in the pilot’s chair at the wheel, a few others clustered around him. The airboat’s fan slows and the craft glides to a stop in the murky water beside me.
“Where ya headed?” the pilot asks. He’s an older man, white-haired with a neat white goatee, decked out in hip-waders.
I shrug. “Not sure exactly. All I got is an address, but I don’t know the city.” I hand him the slip of paper with Ava’s address scrawled on it in Christian’s handwriting.
The man takes it, stares at it, and then pivots this way and that in his seat, as if orienting himself. “Well shit, you ain’t but half a mile off, though you’re headed in the dead wrong direction.” He hesitates a moment. “That area was the hardest hit. Can’t say I know that exact building, but most of ’em around there are…not in good shape. Climb aboard, stranger. I’ll run you there.”
I trudge through the water,
my legs bumping into debris and detritus, chunks of wood, bits of insulation, a child’s plastic toy phone, a strip of siding. I climb as gently and carefully as I can aboard the prow of the airboat, clutching the box I’m meant to deliver under one arm.
“Checkin’ in on family?” the pilot asks me, shouting over the fan.
“Not exactly, but sort of.”
“Well that’s about clear as mud,” he answers with a laugh.
“It’s complicated.”
He makes a face and nods. “Meanin’ quit askin’ s’many damn questions?”
My turn to laugh. “Pretty much.”
Only half a mile or so, he said, but we take a long, winding, slow, circuitous route. He drifts slowly down the flooded roadways, peering into open doorways and windows, slowing to a stop here and there, hopping out and peeking in for a closer look.
“What are you looking for?” I ask him, finally.
“Anyone who might need help. Times like this, you gotta do your part. Folks need help, and I’m in a position to help.”
“I see.”
We take on another two people, a young black woman and a wildly overweight older white guy, both picked up from the first-floor window of an apartment building. Finally, the pilot takes a right turn and the sea is shining and twinkling in the bright sun, and the beach stretches away in both directions out of sight. The beach is ruined, flooded, littered with trash and washed-up wreckage, and seaweed and driftwood and who knows what else from the deep sea, along with other garbage and rubble from the city. The rivers are surging, the docks are gone, boats are lodged into the sides of buildings, and on end and upside down and bobbing free, drifting by mooring ropes. It’s a dangerous route we take, now, dodging between wrecked boats, crossing surging river currents trying mightily to dump excess water into the sea. The condo buildings here are ruined, completely. Wrecked totally, most of them. It’s hard to believe there could even be survivors in them at all, but each building is a humming hive of activity, volunteers and firefighters and police and construction and rescue workers, placing sandbags and hauling at the rubble with bare hands and any available tools.
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